oh, my love, don't forsake me
by TaoGrace
Summary: a presence shifted in the chateau


A presence shifted in the château. A nearly silent foot touched the carpeted stone floor on the lower level, just as Philippe's eyes blinked open. Alert. He strained his ears, reaching for any shadow of sound, any murmur of essence. A step. Then another. The rippling sound of rain against the battlements and windows.

Then, a scent caresses his nose, a rich and familiar scent, a scent Philippe knew better than any other in the world. He relaxes, his taut muscles easing their strain, and he takes a deep inhale, savouring every last bit of fragrance in his lungs, the glorious fragrance of earthy roots under the summer sun. It was bizarre, how her scent could make his fingertips feel the dry heat of the sun even when she was sodden.

Because if there was one thing that should have woken him up, it was the steady splatter of rainwater she left in her wake as she walked. Philippe turned in the sheets, silk and linen catching against his skin.

A creaking step, a wooden plank as she slowly, surely makes her way up the stairs. He can almost picture her as the sounds grow closer, nearer to his chamber. Their chamber. She wouldn't have bothered with a cloak - a useless garment in the storm outside - which meant it was her clothes, soaked and churned with rain, flowing heavily across the stone pavements of the chateau's floors that made such a dreadful scraping sound.

As the steps grew nearer to his room (two-three-four, there come the stairs to the tower, wooden boards thumping, is she barefoot?), a feeling, a marvellous sensation warmed the pit of his stomach, a queer sort of mix between anticipation and anxiety, fear and desire as the door to the antechamber creaked, and a thousand mortal heartbeats later, there she wass, standing in his doorframe, a live likeness to a goddess.

Ysabeau.

It's been weeks since she's last set foot in Sept-Tours, and yet one whiff of her, a tiny slip of a hand and the chateau in its entirety smells of her again. Here she is queen, empress, and daughter to a god, and Philippe finds it hard to believe a living being, human or creature, can lay eyes upon her and not remain breathless.

Especially now, the sight of her makes his frozen blood boil. She'd been hunting, he knows, and the last candles in his antechamber paint her in gold and amber and bronze, her ripped dress a rich, deep burgundy, dark like sin with rain and blood. Torn sleeves and skirts dripping, pristine skin peeking out from under the cold, taut mass of fabric.

Dark, smoldering eyes bore into his own.

Her red mouth opens slightly, she exhales and her nostrils flare.

She is exquisite.

Philippe slowly, carefully raises himself from the mountain of sheets and pillows that is his bed. Their bed. She does not move, waiting still for him to make the first step, to come to her. For weeks he had waited for her, since she'd left Sept-Tour, the life-blood of creatures around her calling and singing to her.

He straightens himself, towering over her in height, if not in presence, not as she is right now, sated, and yet hungry for more. A rough chuckle rasps from deep within his throat. It's long since he'd last been anyone's prey, and the her cold, blood-red lips curl up in half a smirk, her eyes hooded and liquid with want.

He makes his way towards her, naked feet padding over the carpted floor, and his shoulders relax, the tension eases from his body as he touches her. Through the ripped bodice of her dress, he lays first a finger, then three, and then flattens his palm across her waist, pulling her in.

She feels marvellous, free and unbound, and he can feel that she wears no stay and no hoop, and he feels himself grow hard. It is only the torn and hardened dress, several strings holding the burgundy bodice of the slashed garment together over her translucent shift, the material clinging to her flesh.

He puts his other hand on her, smelling freshly spilled blood and the spring storm and herself, her golden hue of sunlight in the deep dark woods. Philippe ghosts his fingers over her bodice **,** finding the tangled mess of wet strings holding it together. Her green eyes are dark and deep and bold, and they find his and Philippe gives her a slow grin, his eyes taking her in from the tips of her toes to the dark golden crown of her head.

They go back and meet her own, and the twin to his smirk, a devilish rake of teeth on rosy flesh, blooms on her plump lips and his fingers finally unknot part of her strings, so he slides his hands underneath her dress and around the wet shift baring her waist, pulls her flush against him and covers her mouth with his.

Her kiss is wanton, hungry and hard. Ysabeau bites at his lower lip, then, before he has a chance to back away, soothes the spot with her tongue. Her fingers tangle in his curls and her sharp and uneven nails scratch his scalp.

His hands go to her backside, sprawling over her soft flesh and pulling her tighter to himself and her breasts press against his chest and his tongue dances on the roof of the mouth and she gasps loudly in the back her her throat.

It would seem she has missed him quite as strongly as he did, from the way she pushes him against an ornate bedpost, a hand in his hair, one raking his chest, precisely over his rapidly beating heart.

A sound, half a moan and half a growl rises from low his throat as a cold hand wraps around the length of him and strokes, fingers tight and palm soft. It's been so long since he'd last had her and his back arches at the feel of her hand and ministrations and her victorious chuckle dissolves into a loud moan as he takes both her hands in his, tangling their fingers together and then turns her around, the cold and wet material of her skirt pressing into his front.

He breathes hot, scalding air on the back of her neck, visible under the tangled mess that is her hair. Philippe pulls her tighter against him, and she can likely feel him through her gown, hard as he is, and he presses an open-mouthed kiss on her neck, suckling on the skin there, leaving a mark, her small, dainty hands covered under his, sprawling over her breasts, tips hard through her chemise and her dress and she whimpers and he laughs in pleasure. Ysabeau arches her neck and back, pushing herself closer to him, full breasts filling his calloused hands, her heavy head falling back in his shoulder.

He continues whispering into her skin, redness blooming in his wake, lips warm against her, and both her hands reach backwards and tugg brazenly at his hair, at his shoulders, at the back of his neck, as he rips the front of her gown, and flesh meets flesh, one hand snaking in and palming her breast, flicking her nipple, the other on her stomach, then lower, lower, molding her to him, their hips snapping in unison.

They moan, as if they were only one wanton creature, one wanton devil begging release as his hand reached the bottom of her chemise, pulling it up and stroking her.

It looks beyond erotic, the view she offers him - the arch of her neck, the delicate shoulder line, so very fine boned in detail, he swell of her breast in his palm, hard nipple scratching against rough skin, and then his other hand, crooked fingers lost between her slick folds, making her shiver and ache and twist as he falls backwards on the bed and pulls her in his lap.

She turns her neck, stopping his attentions, and Philippe's breath is knocked out of his lungs at the look on her face. Utterly lost in pleasure, her green eyes are glazed with desire, each tug at her nipple, each movement of his fingers inside her, scraping against her walls, making her eyes roll in the back of her head, making her sweet red mouth sing and mewl and oh, she has squirmed her way around the heavy material of her skirt, the only barrier between them the soaked, transparent shift, and she reaches out, captures his mouth, tongue and teeth, sweet like honey, colliding with his, and she rides his fingers, hips ondulating, pressing in his lap and he moans in her mouth.

His pace becomes frenetic, fingers curling and pressing and dancing inside her, her thighs draped over his knees, parted and open and it takes one, two, three more strokes and the harsh press of his fingers around her breasts, the her voice breaks into mewling noises and he moans in her ear and she unravels beneath his hands.

* * *

 **A/N: pwp for Philippe/Ysabeau. I fully intend to flood the archive with them. for reasons. otps are special that way.**

 **cheers :D**


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